Charlie and the Chocolate Factory movieverse AU - Fantasy inspired by Christmas sneaking up on me and too much to do at work. Standard disclaimers apply as in, no, I do not own any of them. Some things, not even Willy Wonka can imagine.
One Snowy Christmas Day
There must have been some magic in that old silk hat they found . . .
Joe Grimms knew he had a potentially earth shaking story when he examined the evidence he had gathered. It had taken a lot of time and effort by him. He could not allow his editor to know about this one. She would be too worried about lawsuits and the like. His search for dirt had finally paid off. While odd that the world's most famous and infamous chocolatier was the son of a dentist, it was not particularly newsworthy. The promising headline for an extremely juicy story was the fact that there was not a birth certificate for the mysterious, wealthy recluse. It was nowhere to be found and yet every resource he'd checked said Wilbur Wonka, D. D. S. was the father of a son named Willy, but there was no information on a mother. Where had Willy Wonka really come from? Who was his mother? Records clearly revealed Dr. Wonka as single and alone before he moved from London, yet he arrived with a baby son. The man rubbed his hands together, almost ready to cackle with glee. Headlines! Rewards, monetary and satisfying! Maybe even the recognition that he truly deserved! Finally!
So, Joe found himself on the doorstep of a townhouse in the middle of nowhere. A townhouse! It should have been in the middle of a row of identical townhouses, but wasn't. Why would someone start building townhomes in an empty field and in the middle at that? Joe shrugged off the oddity and pushed the doorbell. It had nothing to do with his story after all. The gossipmonger took a step back in surprise as the door opened and a very tall, dignified man with silver hair and neat beard looked down at him.
"Do you have an appointment?"
The voice was deep and seemed to boom, even though the man was actually restrained and polite. Grimms realized that this was Dr. Wilbur Wonka, as if the white, starched medical lab coat didn't give it away. He struggled to appear calm as he responded. Something about this man made him fell like squirming and remember every peccadillo and shenanigan he had perpetuated in his life from childhood on. He was far worst than Mr. Rehnquist, the headmaster who had kept the rowdiest teens in line. "No," he replied. "I am Joe Grimms, a columnist, Dr. Wonka. I wish to interview you about your son." He was very careful not to name the newspaper, for it was more tabloid than anything else. If this dignified man heard the name, The Daily Nova, he would never get past his stoop to get his scoop. He silently snickered, but managed to maintain a serious demeanor.
Dr. Wonka's head tilted slightly as he considered the chubby man with pepper hair. "Willy?" He paused to reflect briefly on possible consequences, before nodding and stepping back, leaving the door open for his latest visitor to enter. Wilbur Wonka closed the door behind them and frowned thoughtfully as he led the way to the parlor. He did not receive many guests where he was located and wondered why and how this newspaperman had found him now. Still, if he spoke with him about his son, he could finally let the world know how proud he was of him. Even better, Willy would finally realize that he was truly proud of his accomplishments.
Dr. Wonka gestured for the man to sit before sitting in his overstuffed, comfortable brown armchair. Willy had given him that chair on his birthday after their brief first reunion. He felt a warm gratitude toward Charlie Bucket for triggering it. If not for that wonderful little boy, he would still be estranged from his only child. "I am very proud of Willy. He has accomplished so much, overcoming every adversity," he stated.
"That's nice." Grimms faked a smile, secretly smirking as he moved in for the kill. "But what I am really interested in is where Willy Wonka came from." His smile turned to a shark toothed grin as Dr. Wonka looked at him slightly bewildered. "There isn't a birth certificate and you were never married. Where did you get him? Was it an affair? Did you adopt him? Kidnap him?"
"I," Dr. Wonka started and halted. What could he say? He sighed heavily. "You won't believe me." His face reflected his true age now as well as resignation.
"Try me." Joe Grimms leaned forward eagerly, placing a small recorder on the table and turning it on. "Tell me everything."
For when they placed it on his head, he began to dance around . . .
Wilbur Wonka sighed as he left the small café. Really, he didn't know why he bothered trying. He did not understand women at all. They were so emotional about everything and completely illogical. And yet, he was lonely. Yes, he was fully capable of feeling things, if not as strongly as some others. Alone in life, he periodically made attempts to remedy the situation. Unfortunately, society dictated that should be with a suitable young lady. He had not managed to find one to suit his taste. Why couldn't they make sense? Was that too much to ask? The proper thing to do was to court a young lady, marry her and produce an heir. Really, all he wanted was a quiet companion who made few demands of his time, but could provide intellectually stimulating conversation and a male child to carry on the Wonka line. If only there was some other way!
The commotion drew the tall, solemn young dentistry student's attention to the street. His jaw dropped as he watched a pack of rowdy children run past, whooping and hollering, making a horrendous amount of noise. Not that this was surprising, children did not know how to behave themselves these days. However, the 'person' they were gleefully running after was the real shock. It appeared to be a . . . Snowman? Impossible! Preposterous! He could not deny the sight before his own eyes. Almost against his will, Wilbur trailed the boisterous mob, quietly and unnoticed. When the children finally disbanded to return to their warm homes, he continued to follow the living Snowman. It . . . He finally halted on the edge of the university town.
"You can come out now," the Snowman called, apparently aware of his older shadow all along.
Wilbur looked around uncertainly, before stepping up to the inexplicable conundrum.
"What do you want?"
"How? How can you be . . . alive?" He whispered.
"Alive? That's not what I asked," the Snowman replied gently. "What do you want?" Seeing the puzzlement, his coal lined mouth turned up into a smile. "What do you want more than anything in the world?"
"Want? I . . ." Wilbur Wonka was fully prepared to say he wanted to be a dentist, the best around, only to pause. What did he really want? Out of the entire world? "A son," he blinked in surprise at the answer that seemed to force itself out of his very heart. "I want a son of my very own."
The Snowman nodded, almost as if he had expected such an answer. "It will warm soon and I will melt away. Take my hat and use it wisely."
"Your . . . hat?" Wilbur did not understand anything. His world was spinning with the strangeness. Perhaps he was in his tiny studio apartment, sick with a fever? Yes, that must be it. The entire affair was a hallucination. This could not happen in real life!
"My hat," the Snowman repeated firmly. "It brought me to life. Use it wisely and you will have a son."
"I . . . I don't want my son to melt," he replied, quite against all logic and sense.
"You will have to find a way," the Snow man answered, "to prevent that from happening. Study hard and find a way to make him flesh and blood. You can do it if you wish hard enough." He straightened and smiled as Wilbur timidly reached for that old top hat made of black silk, far more precious than it appeared. "May your son bring boundless joy to this world," were the Snowman's last words before he stopped moving and became just an ordinary snowman once more.
And the children say he could laugh and play . . .
Wilbur Wonka smiled sadly. He knew his audience didn't believe him. Of course, he had never expected to tell the truth about his son. "As I said you don't believe me." He nodded once. "You think I'm a crazy old lunatic. I believe the phrase is 'mad as a hatter'."
"You didn't really expect me to believe you met Frosty the Snowman," Grimms responded cynically. He felt cheated by the obvious lies. "Now, tell the truth, Dr. Wonka." His tone was hard and spiteful.
"The truth? I suppose the person who wrote that song saw the children playing with the Snowman. Or perhaps someone who was there told him the story. The truth is not quite the way the song went. The truth, Mr. Grimms, is that a Snowman gave me his 'magic' hat and told me to make my son." Wilbur folded his hands together, before pressing his fingers to his mouth as he remembered those distant, deliberately forgotten days. "The truth . . ."
The sun was hot that day . . .
Wilbur threw himself into his studies, working even harder than before. The top hat sat on a shelf beside his desk, mocking him with the knowledge that there was more to life than science and what everyone, including him, called reality. Finally, eventually, he added more esoteric studies, searching for answers on how to make a person from snow into flesh and blood. He didn't even think of the possibility of making a wife. He wanted, plain and simply, a son. He graduated at the top of his class and interned at the finest dental office in London, all the while seeking answers to questions perhaps best left unasked. The young man grew older, his dreams haunted by a Snowman and a baby of snow, his days haunted by an old hat that he could not let go.
Finally, one cold morning of the winter solstice, before the sun had risen, he went to an isolated park and collected a large amount of pristine white snow. After almost two decades of service, he was leaving for his own practice today. He had to have his son before he reached his destination if he was to avoid the questions he could never answer.
Carefully, almost tenderly, his sterile, white gloved hands molded the soft, cold flakes as he'd practiced for so long, until a perfect baby boy lay on the mound of snow. His son must have a heart and so he buried one in the white chest, the only heart he had available – a sweet chocolate heart from one of the finest and oldest specialty chocolatier shops in the city. Two dark, round stones, unpolished, but the perfect shape, were positioned for eyes, leftovers from his Uncle Wilton's travels. Instead of coal, he outlined the mouth with lipstick. Reddish brown silk threads, short, soft and fine, were planted on the cranium. Hesitantly, he placed the old hat on the Snowbaby's head. It was far too large for the figure so he had to take extra care that it did not slip out of position.
As the sun rose on the shortest day of the year, Wilbur Wonka performed actions that he didn't actually believe would work. His eyes closed as he reached the final stage, part of him thinking it was impossible and he was quite mad. Until the still of the early morning was broken by a baby's cry. Stunned, he looked down to find a living, breathing child lying on the mound of snow. His skin was fair and white, his lips were rosy, his hair was pale baby fuzz that promised to darken to a rich reddish brown, and his eyes were dark and perfect. Startled, he picked up the small form and awkwardly cuddled it close. "Willy," he whispered the name and, looking around to make sure he was still unobserved, hurried to his car. He placed the child in the bassinet he had recently acquired. He would arrive at his new home with a baby son and everyone would assume his mother had died. He'd been very careful with the size and age. He was not a newborn, but was several months old, for Dr. Wonka had little desire to deal with a squalling baby for any longer than necessary. In fact, he thought as he started the car and drove toward their new life, he was born on the summer solstice. Yes, that would work out just about right. By the time, they were well on their way; Dr. Wilbur Wonka almost believed it was the truth.
His son had been precocious and curious. He grew from a baby into a toddler, exploring the world eagerly. Housekeepers came and went. Usually, they were dismissed after they became overly curious why young Willy's temperature was lower than they expected, why he was so smart, why he was so well behaved. Finally, as he grew from toddler to a bright eyed, intelligent, friendly boy, ready to attend school, the braces were added. Braces, large, ugly and unnecessary, designed to keep others from looking too closely at his perfect son. As a dentist, with intimate knowledge of teeth, he had been a little too exacting in his efforts. The cage would make certain that Willy was left alone, as he had been, with no friends to wonder why he was slightly, but noticeably, cooler than them. It never entered his mind that this was not the best course with his lively, sweet natured son.
Heard him holler . . .
A soft choking sound made Wilbur look up, startled, into the shocked eyes of his child. Wilbur Wonka stretched a hand out and called, "Willy, please!", as he ran away. The chocolatier didn't even pause to grab his hat or coat as he fled out the door into the falling snow. Charlie Bucket stared hard briefly at the two people in the parlor before pulling his own warm coat back on and plunging outside, dragging his mentor's things with him. He paused on the top step to scan the white field, searching for Mr. Wonka. He didn't see him and the snow was already silently filling in the depressions made by Willy's steps.
Charlie sighed unhappily, silently wishing they had not chosen this particular day of all days to drop in for a call. Willy Wonka had been doing so much better; each succeeding visit with his father had brought more healing to his broken heart. The boy had been surprised to realize that the man he thought had everything in the world, who always smiled so brightly and cheerfully every day, was actually damaged inside by abandonment and betrayal. He had worked with Willy, supportive and helping, as his friend and teacher struggled to connect once more with his only family, his father.
The morning had started so normally, Willy almost giddy with his thoughts, plots and plans. Today, they were to go see his father. They had used his old house key to let themselves inside, just as Dr. Wonka had suggested repeatedly. The visit was to be a surprise, instead of one of the carefully arranged ones as all had been after their first. Well, the surprise was on them and it truly was unpleasant, something of an understatement. Charlie did not dismiss Dr. Wonka's fantastic tale. He had learned all too well from his teacher that the impossible was actually possible, especially in Willy Wonka's world. For now, he had to find Willy and make sure he was alright; everything else could and would wait.
"MR. WONKA!" Charlie shouted into the growing storm, anxious and worried. He stumbled through the deepening snow, trying to follow his friend's rapidly disappearing tracks. "WILLY!!!" How, he wondered, could a man who normally carried a cane and spent virtually all of his time indoors vanish so quickly? He had to find him! Willy was used to the heat inside his factory, not this cold world. He nervously scanned his surroundings, seeking a splash of color that might give away Willy's presence. Where was he?!
Charlie tripped over something buried under the snow. He fell forward, a sharp pain shooting through his ankle. "Ow!" The boy found himself sprawled in the cold, wet snow. He shivered hard and reached for his foot. He didn't have time for this! He tried to stand, only to collapse back to the ground. Charlie glared at his offending, hurting appendage, more fearful about Willy than his own injury. "WILLY! MR. WONKA!" He yelled as loudly as he could, trying to attract the man's attention. Could he use Willy's cane? Sadly, it was too long and he soon toppled back to the ground. Trembling, he wrapped his arms around himself. "Mr. Wonka? Willy?" He called again in despair.
Don't you cry . . .
Willy didn't pay attention to where he was going; only knowing he had to get away. He wasn't . . . real? The knowledge made his head spin wildly. He had always assumed his mo-mo-mo . . . her . . . had died or gone away. Never in his wildest imagination had he guessed that he didn't have one. He was not REAL! A shudder ran through his cold frame as his world collapsed around him. He was just a snowman. No wonder no one truly liked him. This was why he never had a friend or a girl friend or anything. Only kind, little Char . . .
A distant, forlorn cry, almost lost in the storm, reached his ears by some strange fluke of the wind. "Charlie?" Willy immediately turned in that direction and forced his way through the deeper snow, determined to reach his heir and friend as speedily as possible.
Charlie's eyes were closed and he felt very much like crying when a gentle, hesitant hand touched his back. He yelped, startled, only to hear an answering yelp in a very familiar voice and a muffled thud. "Mr. Wonka?" His eyes flew open to see it was indeed Willy Wonka sprawled in the snow beside him, blinking rapidly.
"You called me Willy," the chocolatier replied as he knelt beside Charlie again. "I . . . I liked it." He smiled, more than a bit sadly as he recalled he was not real, but shook the feeling and thought off. The next thing Charlie knew he was wrapped in both of Wonka's coats and the top hat was firmly sitting on the head of its owner, the falling snow swiftly coating them both. Willy gathered his injured heir close and carefully stood up straight.
"You don't have to carry me, Mister, er, Willy," Charlie murmured, still surprised that his touch shy friend would do such a thing or wish he would call him by his first name.
"Bah! You hurt your foot, didn't you?" Willy nodded firmly. "You need to keep your weight off of it until we know how badly." He felt the thin boy shivering. "And you're freezing! We must get back to the Factory as quickly as possible."
"You-you must b-be cold, too," Charlie answered, his teeth chattering. He cautiously eased an arm around the chocolatier's neck, while clutching Willy's cane tightly in his other hand.
"Ha," Willy barked a semi-sweet laugh. "You heard, Dad. I'm just a . . . a snowman. Cold shouldn't bother me at all. I was made from snow." He twisted a hand slightly so he caught some snowflakes in his palm. "Snow," he whispered, staring at them. If he was a snowman, why did he prefer the warmth of his Factory? It didn't really seem to make sense. Of course, he hadn't been concerned about temperature until the Oompa-Loompas moved in. Afterwards, he discovered he liked the heat. It never bothered him at all, even with all of his layers of clothes.
These thoughts and ponderings must wait for another, more timely, time. First, Willy had to make certain Charlie Bucket was tended with tender, loving care and warm and safe with his . . . them, Mrs. Bucket and Mr. Bucket, Grandpa Joe and Grandma Josephine, Grandpa George (who would probably yell at him for letting his grandson get hurt) and Grandma Georgina (who would say something silly and make him want to laugh, however inappropriate that would be). Anything else could and should wait. He stepped high, being careful where he placed his feet, not wanting to give his dear friend another tumble. Once was too much as it was! He huffed in relief as he spotted the outline of the Great Glass Elevator. His father was standing beside it, anxiously scanning the area, a couple of blankets in his arms.
"Is he alright?" His dark eyes shone with worry. "I'm very sorry, Willy."
Willy was startled by the apology. Why was he apologizing? He never apologized. Willy wrapped the thick, heavy blankets around his precious burden. "Thanks, Papa," he stated somewhat shyly.
"Willy, I am very sorry you found out the way you did," Wilbur repeated to his son. "I . . . Perhaps, I should have said something before, years ago."
"Dad," Willy allowed an edge of fond exasperation to enter his tone. "We hadn't talked for years." He smiled down at Charlie, knowing that they were talking now only because of him. He shook his head and managed to elbow the button to open the elevator doors. He gently settled Charlie into a corner and stood, his eyes shadowed by his top hat. He reached toward a button, only to pause, his fingers squeezed nervously into a fist and he took a secret breath. "I . . . We wanted to invite you to the Factory, for – for Christmas Eve and Christmas." He ducked his head further. "If you want, like, I mean, uh . . ."
"I would like that very much." Wilbur Wonka smiled in relief. His son was not irrevocably angry with him as he, truthfully, had a right to be. There was still a chance and perhaps he could explain more clearly how he felt. At least he had the opportunity to try.
Willy's finger hovered over the "Up and Out" button, halted only by his never ending curiosity. His perverse sense of humor raised its head as a he had a wicked thought. "Dad, do you know what paper he works for?"
Wilbur shook his head, regretting not getting more information first. He had acted such a fool! "No. He said his name was Joe Grimms."
"Son, I'll see you Christmas Eve?"
"Uh, yeah, whenever you like." Willy managed a smile through his confusion, part of him delighted at the thought of spending the holidays with his father, the other part that wasn't worrying over Charlie was really rather scared. He froze, wondering how a snowman could feel emotion like that and remembering Christmases past.
Willy shook himself and, with a wave to his father, pushed the button to take them up. Wilbur waved back before trudging back toward the warmth of his home. Meanwhile, Willy was lost in his own thoughts again. Surprisingly enough, not the fact he was a snowman. No, what he was contemplating was how to deal with Mr. Joe Grimms. The Oompa-Loompas could track him down easily enough. They were so very clever and always managed to provide what he needed, be it a part for a new invention or some obscure piece of information.
Charlie chose that moment to sneeze. It was a small sneeze really, but it alarmed the chocolatier out of all proportion to its size. He couldn't have his heir getting sick! No! No! No! That would never do and Charlie Bucket had always seemed kind of frail, even if he actually was a sturdy little chap willing to help with anything at all. It's just Willy could never get those old stories out of his head. The ones by people like Charles Dickens about the poor and poor orphans and children who were so fragile and unhealthy that the slightest cold swiftly grew to pneumonia and then they died before their time. He could NOT have his heir dying! That would not work at all! Not to mention, he would miss him greatly since he was his only friend outside of the Oompa-Loompas, his best friend at that and that would be bad for the candy as well. He totally ignored how healthy Charlie had been before and was becoming since moving into the Factory. Willy himself had never been sick, not the least little sniffles, so his heir catching even a small cold was somehow more alarming because of it. Willy was now being just plain silly, but he forgot his plotting in his anxiety over Charlie.
The candy making inventor pressed a button on the wall of his Great Glass Elevator, urging it to greater speed. Soon, the elevator was descending through the door that Charlie had convinced Willy to put into the ceiling. So the Oompa-Loompas wouldn't have to risk patching it when it was particularly cold outside. At least, that was what he told Willy who would do just about anything for his little workers. It had worked, hence the presence of a door in the roof of the world's largest chocolate factory. The silver claws reached out and with almost delicate precision caught hold of their tracks. The elevator began to speed this way and that through the Factory, hurrying its way to the Medical Center, also known as the Infirmary. Charlie kept himself from sliding around on the floor with the jerky movements by the simple expedient of holding on to Willy's leg.
The view of the strange and varied sights in the Factory disappeared as the elevator slid into the large Medical Center, the doors sliding open with a musical ding. Willy crouched to pick up Charlie again, not giving the boy an opportunity to try and stand up on his own. He carried the child over to one of the exam tables and rolled his tongue, making the peculiar call that summoned his workers. Soon, several of the small people were clustered around the table, looking anxiously up at their employer. Their white coveralls and the red cross on one arm indicated they were medical personnel. He quickly explained what had happened to Charlie and soon they were swarming around, checking his ankle and temperature. Willy gestured to another worker and sent him scurrying off to find the boy's parents. He relaxed slightly, pushing back his hat, only to remember what his father had said. A snowman? No one, doctor, nurse or Oompa-Loompa had ever indicated that he was anything other than human. His attention wandered slightly as he pondered changing snow into something living. He supposed something similar to his no-melt chocolate ice cream could keep snow from melting, but how had he gotten a consciousness or a conscience? Well, maybe he didn't really have a conscience. He had been very amused by the trouble those other little boys and girls had found in his Factory. Well, except for the ruined chocolate. Really, drinking from his river! That was very rude. Thinking of trouble, his mind turned to that other person, the man from the paper. Which newspaper? That was the question. He didn't want his father's story to be page one or any other page news.
Willy walked over and used the communicator in the corner to contact Doris. She was most efficient in her duties and never let her boss down. "I need to know what paper a Joe Grimms works for, Doris."
"The Daily Nova," she responded immediately.
Willy caught the eye of another worker dressed in dark blue. He curled his lip in distaste. "Ew, that worthless rag?" He made a few gestures to the Oompa-Loompa. He had no desire to have his papa or himself to be laughingstocks or fascinating curiosities. He would have to take preemptive action immediately, if not sooner.
Charlie had been observing his mentor curiously. Having lived in the Factory for almost two years, he had a fairly accurate idea of what Willy was saying to his worker. Fred, he thought, before returning his attention to his mentor. "Willy, what are you up to?" Sometimes you had to rein Mr. Wonka in. He could get carried away, like the "tests" he and the Oompa-Loompas had setup for the Golden Ticket Tour.
"Nothing," Willy responded, the faintest hint of a whine in his tone. He fidgeted slightly. "Um, I thought we might buy the newspaper," he finally admitted to his heir. "And why shouldn't I?"
Charlie started to form an argument, only to pause. Why shouldn't they? His parents and grandparents never had anything good to say about the Nova. But what about the people who work there? Not all of them would deserve to lose their jobs. "What will you do with it?"
Willy giggled, his violet eyes twinkling with mischief. "I thought I might change its, erm, directive to something more worthy of a newspaper. And make sure Mr. Grimms receives a, uh, fitting assignment."
"Such as?" Charlie prompted, as he sat back, crossing his arms, and tried his hardest to look stern. It was a marvelous notion and one he thought might be deserved. It wouldn't do to encourage Willy in his naughtiness though.
"Oh, a story on the condition of the city's sewer lines," Willy offered up slowly, "a very important story for the public welfare." He nodded seriously, before giggling wildly.
Charlie made a valiant attempt to stop his own laughter. It did seem fitting and it didn't appear Willy was going to do anything really drastic like shutting the paper down. "What about the story on . . . you," he questioned cautiously. He hated it when Willy had said he was 'just a snowman'! Willy Wonka was never JUST anything. He was much too wonderful and magical.
Willy raised his head up and sniffed. "That piece of nonsense? Not worth the paper and ink and it won't fit the new goals. We want real news, serious stuff and, um, human interest things, like the fire department saving a kitten from a tree, none of those nasty, gossipy rumors and hearsay." The arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Bucket put a halt to the discussion, but Willy didn't think Charlie objected too much about his plans.
The days slipped past in a blur, hurrying toward the holidays. The story about Willy Wonka's origins did not make the newsstand. Joe Grimms hated his new assignment, fuming at the loss of his scoop. Why did he have to crawl around crumbling sewer lines? They stank horribly and would never make an interesting story. So, he was particularly stunned when his name was mentioned for a possible award on his latest series about the condition of the sewers. Some good was even coming from the expose since the city council had been startled into voting a budget for repairs before adjourning for the holiday season.
Thumpetty thump thump . . .
Wilbur phoned his son requesting permission to bring a guest with him.
Willy managed to stammer out an affirmative, before carefully hanging up the telephone. He was still staring at it when Charlie clumped in on his crutches. The boy's ankle had been sprained and the aids were more of a precaution than absolute necessities after the first few days. The Oompa-Loompa doctors were pleased with his progress and had said he could discard them around Christmas Eve. It couldn't come too soon as far as he was concerned.
"Willy? What's wrong?"
"Dad's bringing a 'guest'," he answered in a daze. He blinked and looked up at his friend. "What does that mean?"
"Maybe he's met someone that he likes?"
"Ew, you mean a girl?"
Charlie shrugged. "Maybe or maybe he just wants to bring a friend? Does it bother you that much?"
"I don't know," Willy responded truthfully. "It just seems really weird."
The chocolatier had managed to not talk about the things they had overheard which worried Charlie, but he had learned enough to know that Wonka had to be ready to talk about it first. He'd only discussed a tiny bit of his concern with his mother and father without betraying any of the actual details. Mrs. Bucket had wisely told him what he already knew; that he just had to wait and be there for Willy when he finally faced his 'problem' whatever it was. It was reassuring to have his feelings confirmed though.
Willy had been having strange dreams since that day. In one, he had melted in the chocolate river, Charlie desperately calling his name. That one had been really disturbing. Another one had him frozen in the room with the Nice Ice Mice to keep him from melting away in the summer. He really didn't know what to think about it. Not all the dreams were bad. He had dreamt he could turn water into snow with his hands. He'd secretly tried that one and was now practicing making large, fluffy snowflakes. He wondered if he should make an appointment with his psychiatrist after the first of the year. Not that he had a lot of time heading into the Valentine rush, but still, they couldn't be good for him or the candy. Right?
But his Dad with a girl? EW! That thought was too unsettling. So much so, that it banished the dreams about being a snowman as Christmas approached. The evening of Christmas Eve found Willy Wonka restlessly pacing the entry hallway as he waited for his father and the mysterious guest to arrive.
Charlie watched in concern, wondering if there was something he could do to distract his friend. This much anxiety couldn't be very good. It was easy to gather a group of Oompa-Loompas together to sing Christmas carols and rock songs. The little workers loved music and singing for Willy Wonka was right up there with their love of cocoa beans. Soon, Charlie smiled as Willy started to bop and bob in time with the songs, relaxing more as the impromptu concert continued.
Before either of the friends knew it, the gates were opening. Dr. Wonka and his guest had arrived for the evening. Willy trembled anxiously as he watched the pair approaching. EW! It was a girl, well, an older woman actually, around his father's age. He squinted slightly. There seemed to be something familiar about her. Had he met her before?
"Willy, you remember Mrs. Peony Parker, don't you?"
The chocolatier's brow furrowed under his top hat. Peony Parker? Something stirred deep in his childhood memories. He remembered a kitchen full of warmth and marvelous smells. He remembered gentle hands soothing his tears and tending a scraped knee. "Miss Peony?" If someone had bothered to ask Willy about what a mother should be like, he would now answer Mrs. Bucket who was so marvelously patient and kind. Once upon time though, that answer would have been Miss Peony. "Miss Peony!" Much to Charlie's astonishment, Willy Wonka, who was only just learning to accept being touched, lunged forward to gather the little old lady into an eager, awkward hug.
"Charlie, Charlie! This is Miss Peony. She was one of our housekeepers when I was younger than you are. She baked the most marvelous breads!" Willy was bouncing, he was so very excited. "She took such great care of me and Papa. She told me the best bedtime stories and always listened to me. Yeah!" He abruptly stilled. "Then one day, she was just . . . gone," he finished in a tiny voice.
"I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to say good-bye to you, Willy" Mrs. Parker responded softly.
"I should have explained," Wilbur Wonka spoke up. "Mrs. Parker had to care for her parents. They couldn't do it themselves anymore. Her father had a heart attack and her mother wasn't strong enough to do what needed to be done alone." He sighed. "I hadn't realized how much you had grown to care for her, Willy. I made so many mistakes."
"They all left, Papa. You sent most of them away," Willy stated the fact childishly, but somehow managed to avoid sounding accusing. All the housekeepers they had gone through, until his father decided Willy was old enough to take care of himself and help clean the house and with the cooking.
Dr. Wonka nodded. "So many mistakes," he whispered to himself. Why hadn't he seen the loss in his son's eyes when Mrs. Parker had to leave? She was the one of the first and Willy had allowed himself to love her dearly. It was later, that he became wary of granting his affection. Too many losses, too much time spent alone. He had hoped inviting the woman to come with him to visit Willy would help ease some of the heart ache he had caused. Now, he was uncertain if it was the right decision.
Willy managed a smile and straightened self-consciously. "Miss Peony, this is my heir, Charlie Bucket. Charlie, this is Miss Peony." He performed the introductions properly, proving he did possess good manners . . . when he wanted them.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am," Charlie smiled sweetly, his dimples showing. Willy clearly still cared for the silver haired lady, so she must be alright.
"It's my pleasure to meet you, Charlie," Miss Peony smiled warmly at the boy. "You must have been so excited when you won the last Golden Ticket." The pair chatted like old friends as they followed the chocolatier and his father down the long hallway, leaving the luggage for the Oompa-Loompas to deliver to their rooms.
Dr. Wonka frowned as the walls grew closer together and the ceiling lowered. "Willy?"
"It's to keep the great big chocolaty goodness inside," the factory owner answered with a giggle. He bent down and inserted a tiny key into the keyhole of an equally tiny door. "Look," he continued with a big grin as he pushed on the wall, opening the way into the heart of his great Factory, the Chocolate Room.
Wilbur Wonka felt his jaw drop as he took in a room that must surely be any dentist's nightmare. And yet, as he stared around in wonder at the bright colors and delicious scents, it wasn't. It was the most imaginative and eccentrically brilliant conception of a room he had ever seen.
Willy paced a few steps forward into the room. "Everything in this room is eatable," he began.
"Edible," his father corrected automatically.
The candy maker ignored it, quite expertly. "Except for the Buckets' home," he continued. "Even I'm eatable, but that is called cannibalism and is frowned upon in most societies."
Miss Peony, to Charlie's surprise, giggled girlishly. "It's beautiful," she said, "just like your drawings always were."
Willy blushed and offered his arm as he escorted his guests in the direction of the Bucket house. Mrs. Bucket might get annoyed if they were late for dinner. The Oompa-Loompas had worked with their usual clever efficiency, fixing up the crooked little house. It was now both sturdier and bigger, but had lost none of its homey charm.
The Buckets adored Miss Peony and she reciprocated the feeling. Dr. Wonka managed to get along with everyone without making them too nervous or causing a fight with Grandpa George. Actually both of them seemed to enjoy a good argument or two. Dinner, much to Willy's relief, proved a success. The visitors bid the family good night and followed Willy out of the Chocolate Room. (He didn't think they should take the Great Glass Elevator, though he seemed to remember Miss Peony had a real fondness for roller coasters. Maybe he would take her for a ride with Charlie in the morning.) He politely escorted his guests to their quarters. Miss Peony was appropriately appreciative of the room decorated with her namesake flowers. It was quite magnificent, she stated, while retaining a welcoming warmth. Dr. Wonka was not quite so forthcoming over his rooms, filled with rich, dark woods and stark contrasts. It suited his nature, as his son realized quite well.
"Willy," Dr. Wonka said solemnly, "I have something I think you should have."
"What?" Willy's brow furrowed in puzzlement as he trailed his father to the luggage he had brought. It wasn't a lot of luggage, just a travel case and . . . a hat case? The world's greatest chocolatier tilted his head this way and that as he considered the innocuous looking item. It wasn't as if he had never seen a hat box or case. He had dozens of them, holding his precious top hats. However, this one caused a certain tingling excitement as his father held it out to him. Willy curiously opened it up and stared in shock at the old top hat inside. He licked his lips. "Is this . . .?"
"Yes," Wilbur confirmed. "It is. I think it is past time for me to give it to you." Really, he should have done it long ago, as well as explaining his bizarre past to him.
Willy nodded a bit uncertain. "'Kay.Um, good night, Papa." He smiled brightly enough for his father, before carrying the case to his own living quarters. Willy felt himself trembling as he contemplated the battered top hat. It was nothing like his elegant hats, showing its age clearly. He was almost afraid to touch it for fear it might undo whatever had given him life. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, he lifted it with gentle, gloved fingers and placed it tenderly on a table under a window. He adjusted the position carefully so it would be within his eyesight as he rested in bed. He didn't think he was going to sleep, but sleep as it does slipped up on him silently, causing his eyes to slide shut, closing off his view of the hat which seemed to glow in the moonlight.
Thumpetty thump thump . . .
Willy woke on Christmas morning with a start. He blinked for a moment in surprise, before twisting around to stare at the silk top hat on the table. As he stared, he realized that a change had occurred overnight. It had snowed and the courtyard beyond was a pristine white. He stared thoughtfully outside and then down at the hat. Willy Wonka nodded once as he made a decision. First things first, get dressed and then collect Charlie Bucket. He had something that needed to be done right away, before breakfast or Christmas presents. He had to find out the truth.
The Buckets were surprised when Willy appeared to eagerly drag their son outside. Mr. and Mrs. Bucket stared at each other, before they both shrugged and bundled up to follow the pair of friends.
"You would think he would be more interested in presents first," Mr. Bucket whispered softly to Mrs. Bucket, hugging her as he stared at the snow. Once, they had dreaded the cold, white flakes. It felt strange to not have to worry about holes in the roof or feeling as if one's nose was frozen. They smiled indulgently as Willy and Charlie packed and rolled and, with a curious seriousness, built a snowman. It was fairly typical of snowmen, being made up of three round balls, the top one noticeably smaller than the two that made its body. The branches that were its arm were candy branches, fetched from the Chocolate Room by Charlie. The mouth, nose and eyes were all candy from Willy's copious pockets. Still, it looked normal as so much did not inside the vast, towering building behind them.
Thumpetty thump thump . . .
Willy found he was holding his breath as he lifted the top hat and ever so tenderly placed the precious object on the snowman's head. Charlie was watching him with huge eyes as they waited. The first movement was barely noticeable; it would be very easy to put it down to an errant breeze. Then, to Mr. and Mrs. Bucket's stunned amazement, the snowman stretched and smiled.
"Good morning!" The voice was cheerful and friendly.
Willy and Charlie exchanged smiles before echoing the greeting. "Good morning!"
"Happy Christmas," Charlie added for good measure.
"Why so it is," the Snowman looked even happier, if that was possible. "Ah, I know you," he continued, speaking to Willy.
"You do?"
"You're . . . I suppose cousin would be the best word." The Snowman paused to think for a moment. "Or nephew. Which one do you prefer?"
"Uncle?" Willy responded timidly. It would be nice to actually have an uncle.
"Wonderful! Happy Christmas, Nephew!"
"My name is Willy."
"Right you are, Willy." The Snowman chuckled and smiled wider. Charlie was beginning to realize where Willy had gotten his upbeat personality from and his smile. He giggled softly, pleased how well things seemed to be going.
"What's your name?" Willy asked, his head tilting curiously.
"What do you think it is?"
Willy Wonka pondered that for a moment. "Uncle Frosty?"
"I like that!" The Snowman looked around. "Now, do you have any questions for me?"
"I hadn't thought about it." And he actually hadn't thought about questions. Truly, it hadn't even dawned on him that he might ask them. He'd only known he had to make a snowman and find out if it was truly true.
"Well, I have a question," Uncle Frosty stated. Willy nodded as the Snowman transferred his attention to the boy with them. "What's your name?"
"Charlie Bucket, sir."
"Charlie. That's a nice name. Now, has my nephew, Willy, brought joy to this world?"
"Yes sir! He makes the best chocolate and candy in the world! Children love it."
Uncle Frosty nodded. "That makes sense."
"It does?" Willy questioned, suddenly itching with curiosity.
"Of course, you have a fine chocolate heart!"
To say this answer flabbergasted Willy Wonka would be a minor understatement. "Papa wouldn't use candy. He doesn't like it. He's a dentist!"
Wilbur Wonka spoke as he stepped outside to join them. "A chocolate heart from the finest maker in London," he confirmed to his son's disbelief. "Semi-sweet and nuts," he added in aside to Mr. and Mrs. Buckets who nodded as if that explained everything.
"I see both our wishes came true," the Snowman said to Wilbur.
"Indeed, more true than either of us could possibly imagine." He observed his son with an enormous amount of love and a heart full of gratitude. Thank goodness, he hadn't spoiled everything. Thank goodness and Charlie Bucket!
"Hello Frosty," Mrs. Parker said, smiling, as she moved cautiously down the snow covered steps.
"Peony! It has been a long time."
"Too long. I think I always knew Willy was special and magic." She gazed fondly up at her grown charge and memories. She had known that something wonderful would come from little Willy Wonka and she had been right.
"You did?" The chocolatier was surprised once more. Someone had thought that about him? Back then? Wow!
"I did."She turned to Wilbur. "You used amethysts for his eyes."
"I didn't realize what they were at the time, but they suit him, don't they." Wilbur looked proud as he considered his slender, handsome son.
Peony smiled as she rested her hand on his arm. "Yes, they do."
"You will continue to bring joy for many, many years to come," Frosty informed his nephew.
"I will?"
"Of course, as long as you follow the dreams in your heart and imagination."
Had to hurry on his way . . .
"Now, my boy, I don't have much time. I never do. Open those gates and I will be on my way."
"So soon?" Willy felt a surge of sadness. "You just got here."
"True, but I must go for there are an enormous amount of things that must be done." Uncle Frosty smiled at his nephew. "Perhaps, perhaps, you will get a cousin."
"A cousin? Like me?"
"Yes, like you, made from the pristine snow and warm, loving wishes."
"Okay." Willy whispered, only a trifle reluctant. He waved toward the Factory and the mighty gates began to open slowly. "I hope we meet again."
"Perhaps you will have questions next time." With that, Frosty the Snowman began to hurry down the road. Charlie and Willy looked at each other for only a second before, with a whoop, they ran after the Snowman. Their cries of joy and laughter drew attention from children still opening their Christmas presents and soon a whole gang of laughing, happy children were chasing after the living Snowman.
Finally, Charlie slowed, panting heavily, feeling a slight twinge in his healed ankle. Willy, giggling and smiling wildly, halted beside him. He wrapped an arm around Charlie's shoulders as they walked back up the hill. "You know, Charlie, maybe it's not so bad being a Snowman."
Don't you cry, I'll be back again some day.